Before you jump into today’s prompt, please check out this WD Poetic Form Challenge: Tanka post. Every month or so, I offer a poetic form challenge that usually has a quick turnaround time, but the winning poem and poet is featured in a future issue of Writer’s Digest magazine. And it’s completely free to participate! Click to continue.
For today’s prompt, write an unlucky poem. Today is Friday the 13th, and I think it’s the perfect opportunity to wax poetic about anything and everything unlucky.
Here’s my attempt:
“Lovesick B.”
My baby said yes
when I was saying no;
she said speed up
when I was going slow;
my girl wanted space
when I finally had room;
she swept me away
and handed me the broom.
*****
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A wish for Lady Luck
Dearest Lady
I offer the following as proof of my devotion:
One perfectly pressed specimen of
seamair bhuí,
the four-leaved variety
Not one, but two
painstakingly
scratched off cash-words cards
(so you can practice spelling at the same time)
And just for a stylish pizazz of luck
vintage 1960s rabbit’s foot, faux
bright magenta hue
Since it is clear I am a humble
and devoted
disciple
shower your golden shimmer
of fortune upon my head
and these raffle tickets
for I desperately need an IPAD
P.S. Let’s not have repeat of last time
where a close relative (not to be named)
purchases an embarrassingly
small amount of chances
and ended up
walking away
with the whole
kit-n-kaboodle
I know fortune is fickle,
but that’s pushing it a bit,
don’t you think?
He thinks I am unlucky
That I got stuck with him
That I couldn’t find
Anyone better
That I had to settle
With him forever.
I think I’m the luckiest
Unlucky person
Who ever lived
If I get to live
With him
Unlucky
Luck is not a thing with feathers—
it is a stone in a child’s hand, flying!
First it rises, high in the sky,
then it falls, so fast, and sinks beneath
the surface of the pond.
Soon, even the rippled remembrance of it
is gone.
Jane Beal
Unlucky Day
Today the Emperor of the World
announced that his grandparents,
both sets, were back from the dead
(Remember, he reminded me, God
can do anything.) and residing again
in their previous homes. I wondered
what the man thought who purchased
my childhood home when the ghosts
(oh, I forgot, the resurrected bodies)
of my mom and dad appeared and
evicted him.
Did my mother-in-law
suddenly materialize, canning tongs
in hand, apron neatly tied, and nudge
aside the woman who was cooking
on her old stove? My father-in-law,
fiddle in hand, shoving open the door
to the milking barn, would confiscate
the stool, unseating the current sitter.
How unlucky for all of them to have
their sequential existences co-mingled.
Unlucky?
Remember Al Capp?
Lil’ Abner & company?
Remember Joe Btfspik, the
little character who had nothing but
bad luck his whole cartoon life? Oh, it was
sad. Some days I felt like Joe. Some weeks too.
But then I stumbled across someone’s brilliant thought:
“Luck is when preparation meets opportunity,” and I believed.
A Gift
I tripped on a black cat and started to fall
Knocked over a mirror that hung in the hall
It broke into pieces as it fell off the wall
This is no good at all! This is no good at all!
Stepped under a ladder and on every crack
Opened an umbrella, now I’m under attack
Since I lost my rabbit’s foot, my life’s out of whack
How do I get back? How do I get back?
I broke a champagne glass while making a toast
I hit “delete all” while typing this post
If having bad luck was a gift I could boast
Yes, I have the most. Yes, I have the most.
Caren E. Salas
Bad Luck or Bad Decision?
Worms of worry
Drain my brain
Cyclops mirror steals my sleep
Stifling synapses
Throttling thoughts
And smiting ideas
Whirligigs though my mind
Shattered dreams and injured pride
I was taken for a ride… they lied.
Helpless sadness
Hapless madness
Overwhelming tide; hurt pride.
Black tomorrows
Untold sorrows.
Feeling weird
No one cheered; they all jeered
And sneered.
Unfulfilled pledge…
What “cutting edge”?
Replayed scenes
Of
Crumbling castles in the air
Why did I not leave well, alone?
Sad emotions
Darkest notions
Creating doubt and fear…
I hate my green Mohican.
Unlucky
A cat crossed my path this morning
Will bad luck come my way?
I staggered on nonetheless
Hoping nothing will happen today
Two days later I broke a glass bowl
Will bad luck my way?
Was the instant thought
But the day went fine, no disarray
Few days later I tripped on my own toe
Will bad luck come my way?
A voice rang in my head
But the day turned out almost perfect
What is bad luck then?
Just a mind-set? just superstition?
Life is but a random set of events
All about good luck, and bad luck
But more importantly, love, and communication
Unlucky?
Unlucky or not, 13 just a
Number another day to get through
Superstitions fears unfounded
Can rule a life, walk this way NOW.
Black cats, ladders, tunnels all found
Unlucky or not, 13 just a
Reminder of what is lost your
special day lost in memory rubble
Rabbits foot, penny on the street
Can only cause accidents, leave alone
Unlucky or not 13 just a
Number even when found in threes
I walk in ranges of number lost and found
Avoid cracks and broken mirrors
Still break a wishbone but for now
Lucky 13 is just a reminder of you.
(Fibonacci)
Love
is
often
a funny
thing, and you could be
lucky if you aren’t unlucky.
(Shadorma)
The black cat
ran in front of my
path, turned and
hissed as if
it was my fault I was there
and maybe it was.
labeled
old people poor people
fat people crazy people
invisible
mid-summer
an alien burst
of night salt
thrust upon
the sky
a crusty
bridge to
goodbye
“Luck Vs. Not”
Luck is overrated,
Universe balances,
See the yin and yang.
I welcome a challenging period.
It foretells a bounteous day.
The Inheritance
It has always been our lot in life
to bear the weight of our children
and our men.
To rake fingers through scalp dry as winter
and unhem the storm,
soothe it out with a tin of grease,
the same patience that has these sugars,
these honeys, these tots, popping
out our loins like dry beans out the fire only to watch
again
and again
them go down in flames.
We know the steadfast pinch—
being cut done between the bones,
ironed out into smooth brown skins stretched too thin
over too many other people’s sins.
We know how to cup our split ends
like honey in our hands and savor the ruins
of what the world deemed
too much good for one soul to keep—
learned to smooth it out,
thick white sour cream spectacle over
red blood
and redder bones
and watch our babies swallow it up and swell
into manhood when other men will pluck them like chickens,
hang them like wind chimes off dark boughs,
trees behind hills beyond
where loving eyes can find them, find them—
bring them home,
bury them,
wet them into fertile ground and watch them
rise like roots,
strike at the threatening skies
with bright black oil slick wings.
A jumping toad tempts
Sally to attempt a catch
in the shallow pond
cattails jiggle. Trip and fall
down she goes white jeans and all
Triumphant toad hops away
— Lyn Michaud
UNLUCKY ME
Girl, I don’t know what to say,
I thought about it all dang day,
Where did we go wrong?
We’ve been together so long.
I saw you on the town last night,
Underneath those neon lights;
With him arm in arm;
He’d turned on his charm…
You both looked like you had hit the jackpot…
Like you’d both won the lottery…
Lucky him…
Lucky you…
Unlucky me…
I’d've never made the bet,
That you and are are over yet,
How could I not see?
You’ve moved on from me.
What matters is your smiling face,
I wish I was still in his place;
I’d pay any cost;
But it looks like I’ve lost…
You both look like you’ve just hit the jackpot;
Like you’ve won the lottery…
Lucky him…
Lucky you…
Unlucky me…
Lucky him…
Lucky you…
Unlucky me.
Today was your lucky day
Wrong time,wrong place.
But the time will come
when you will pay
for what you have done.
They will be no one
there to stop me,
my revenge will taste so sweet.
When i give to you what you gave.
I am watching you,the day will come.
You shouldn’t have done what you done.
I know i am wrong in how i feel.
Justice is not for me to give.
But it’s an eye for an eye
and tooth for a tooth now.
Your luck has finally run out.
How unlucky for you!
Samantha Tinney
BAKER’S DOZEN
Out on the racks, hot and steaming,
more in the oven ready to go. Out in the market
people waiting, their sustenance, so close
to the source . . . not enough, not enough
the twelve that everybody gets
for their penny farthing. The heat seethes
from inside. The eyes drool at the cracks
between the doors imagining
the dough rising. Filling the space,
its scents maddening, the crust cracking
expanding, as the air pockets grow . . .
here the taste of more grows, drunk nostrils
and bloated bellies, more, more. Were twelve
enough to fill our appetites we’d be home
already. No, the men who knead the flour and water
know the knocks
at their doors, one more,
one more than twelve, rolls down upon the counter, yes
out of the smoldering embers, our bellies
demanding thirteen, no less, and no more.
Zev Davis
Joyce
She was the kind of Texas woman
who didn’t have two cents to rub,
but if she could manage to find
a handful of shiny nickels, she’d win
enough at a slot machine in Vegas
to buy groceries for her family for a week.
I was walking with her when she conjured
a twenty from under a fist-sized rock
on Rincon Road in nineteen sixty-nine,
I rode shotgun when we had to pray
our way home on a shallow sniff of gas
in the worst rainstorm that summer.
She could puff a breath on her fingers,
then take out ten pins- ball scooting
down the alley like it was hypnotized,
ready to slam itself against the back wall,
she’d take sucker bets without a miss
for hours, even trick shots with a blindfold.
She lost only two things: me, to a yankee,
and her life in single hand. She tried hard
to let ride for another round of hold ‘em
but cancer is the house that always wins.
When her will was read, luck wasn’t in it,
she must’ve used it all up in the end.
I’m running late but trying to catch up.
“Tough Luck”
Friday
Asked to clear his desk by 5:00.
Lied to his wife. Told her
Everything will be okay.
Packed a copier paper box
with family pictures and that
worthless 15 Years Service plaque.
Typed a Fuck You email
to the CEO. Deleted it unsent.
Saturday
…
Better Lucky Than Prepared
====================
Fall on one knee
Take her hand
Time to make her
Understand
Just how close I
Need her by
When she runs, I’ll
Wonder why
Luck favors the proactive
Not good enough to be attractive!
I mean no disrespect to one of my favorite poets, Edgar Allen Poe. I just thought it might be fun to lighten up this prompt and pay homage to the master of macabre. It is a poor attempt at best, but I had fun with it.
GROUNDED
Once upon a night most weary,I contemplated,
tired and bleary
over many a thumbed and dog eared volume of
forbidden lore
While I dozed, nearly slumping,
suddenly there came a thumping
as of someone loudly knocking,
knocking on my bedroom door
It’s only father, I grumbled, here to implore
It’ll be that and probably more
Yes, I remember it was a sad,
cold November
And I knew in my very marrow,
what I had put off until tomorrow
the lessons I had failed to follow
would now bring me great sorrow
For, sadly I was about to walk
the straight and narrow
I had no options to explore
It’ll be that and probably more
But each angry curse,
brought on hysterical mirth
as silly images of his mad
and blustering visage
Rattled and danced across
my brain most addled
So now to broker my wild
and maniacal laughter
I did something I will regret ever after
I looked my father in the eye and ask him why
He sputtered at my absurd gumption
to utter such a presumption
I really had him railing
about my latest, dismal failing
If had I only studied harder,
I might be a just little smarter
and with a a parting bash
he yelled, get rid of the trash
before we come to an impasse
and nobody likes a wise ass
I’m that and probably more
A haiku for Friday 13th,
Shooting star
Shooting star tatoo
on my skin when I met you.
Enough luck for me.
NO SUCH LUCKY
There is no difference between
the unlucky ones
and those who are fortunate.
We all get what we
want deep down.
We decide our own blessing
and design our own curse,
hiding behind fate
so we can’t blame ourselves.
NO SUCH LUCK, that was supposed to say.
Unlucky Sign
He woke up this morning determined,
decided; resolved nothing should —
nothing would — change his mind
this time
Too many gray days, so much
water under the bridge
no way to go back, no reason to
go on
But, pausing on the brink, thinks
some small sign, a patch of blue
perhaps, might change his mind
again
The river to Luck
is winding,
treacherous,
unpredictable.
No guarantees, Un-Lucky,
because, really,
it’s Luck, after all,
and who has ever
invested Faith in Luck
and consistently
kept afloat?
The boat leaks,
the eddying dominates,
and need I mention
the Waterfall?
Read the safety manuals,
be one with the bright orange
lifejacket puffing up
your paddling, watch out for
submerged rock,
And expect
Nothing
Yoda Speaks My Truth
Half full, the cup is
Worse could string of troubles be
Unlucky, I’m not
Good thing the bright side I like
It seems my gloom works not…yes.
It Was Late December
It was late December
Which was unlike last winter
The sun shone brightly on the bay
And the rocks reflected a light grey
And the salty cold water
Undulated beneath a gilded sheet of ray
Yet still it was a chilly clear Sunday
So my child, me and his mother
Indoors, a warm languor induced us to stay
Even I promised him to go fishing pleasure
To build his dreamy castle together
Gloomily came Monday
Accompanied by his loving mother
Through angry furious weather
Our little angel would not bother
Of heavy burden on his shoulder
His books, his future and a bottle of water
Just gazed with eyes of bleak glimmer
A gaze at me that of blame, of soft mutter
Then to the bay we gazed together
What had been perfectly near
A day before was then further.
Rejection (Shadorma)
The thirteenth
unlucky to some,
rejection
in the mail,
I am not superstitious
well, maybe today.
The Unlucky Ones ( Thoughts on Tsunami 2011)
They were unlucky
to have been born
in a place where the
wind held court over all
where the ocean
reclaimed land long
domesticated and
refined until buds
grew and houses
stood painted and
strong
How unlucky to
have been born
in a place where
water slid over all
blanketing cars
covering pavement
forcing some to
seek shelter in
crowds with
bodies lying
side by side on
thin cots listening
to the snores and
cries of just met
neighbors
How unlucky to
be in a place
where no one
would ever be
able to reclaim
their homes and
radiation overruled
all
This is stunning. We are talking about the truly unlucky.
What Are the Odds?
Unlucky in Love.
Always been me.
How I’ve tried to break that spell.
It started even before I was born.
Daddy didn’t want me.
But at sixteen Michael did
So we got married.
The curse reared up before too long.
Michael was all wrong for me.
I don’t believe in curses.
I do believe in me.
Undaunted I carried on.
There was/were the boy/s in college
All after only one thing.
Each and every time I thought
the thing was me.
Deadbeats plague me
But Mama didn’t raise me
To be no fool.
Just unlucky in Love.
A few more disasters before The One.
The One thought worthy of a ring on the finger.
Can’t say I wasn’t warned.
I believed in change.
I believed in me. My ability
To discern, use what I’d learned.
It wasn’t meant to be.
Cursed luck. The
ink is almost dry on the
disillusion/dissolution papers.
A few months and I’ll be free.
And You, My True Love, you
will be waiting.
Red flags white flags.
You’re waiting for me.
Just a Little Bit Off
My luck is a tide that never comes in,
a perfect lunar eclipse,
nine fingers
eight toes and a rotary phone.
Long walks on a rocky beach,
a pair of front row seats
to an underfunded opera,
Cheap whiskey, the Church
of England and a wrinkled
Armani tuxedo.
Her, Unlucky
She asked me to look at her luck
As if it was something solid I could
knock on wood until it cracked free
Of form and revealed the stuff
that dreams are made of on:
A pillow of bones and a quilt made
Of bad plans.
Reflection on “Unlucky”
I’m not sure I believe in the word unlucky.
If I use it to describe the loss of my parents
or, say, cancer, it is inadequate and ridiculous.
If I use it to describe the time
I lost some business I had planned on
or the fact that I drove a hour
out of my way last night or that I dropped
a favorite glass, it is an excuse
for my own or other’s contributions, or worse,
it denies the energy of the universe working magic
I can not even conceive. I don’t use the word
unless I must for a poetry prompt.
Linda Voit
Misfortunate by Birth
She knew what people said
About her, the phrases
Used – she was referred to
as “accident prone”,”hapless”,
“unlucky”,”cursed”, “luckless”
And so on …
And there was ample reason
After all, if she tried a sport,
She broke bones – hers
If she invested money – she
lost hers and more …
Should she go to the track
with friends and bet on a race,
Not only did her horse lose -
it usually came last, or actually
fell down dead …
“cursed” didn’t halfway cover
what she was.
She was inexplicably cheerful
Given her lot in life
But when she was left alone
At the altar for the third time
Jilted – walked out on again …
Something snapped; she decided
Enough was too much
She wanted to be gone
From this unfortunate life
What was the point, she wondered
What was the use, she pondered
Why keep beating her head
Against a wall that just left
Her bloodied and bowed
When really all she wanted
Was out – out of it all
She knew it was going to take
Some meticulous planning
If she was going to pull
Off a successful suicide
Especially hers … she knew very
Well the chances of her screwing
Up her own death were excellent
She wasn’t sure she could stand that
But thought wryly, what difference
Would it make – it’s not like
She’d go out and kill herself
If her suicide attempt went sideways
Was it? Even she could see the humour
In a rather humourless situation
Still, she had to acknowledge,
What did she have to lose?
Nada, nil, zilch – nothing
At the most, there would be
Just one more failure added to the list
Of unfortunate things about her
That people could talk about …
Maybe she could set some kind of record
Maybe she would get into that book
Maybe
S.E.Ingraham©
Unlucky Days
Unlucky days are
Not about luck.
Life can be sporadic,
Unleashing
Chaos at times—
Kicking too much
Yucky stuff our way.
Deal with it
And
Yell, if needed.
So it is.
Sheryl Kay Oder
Friday, the 13th
Given a bad rap
For no other reason but
The number 13
When it falls on a Friday
Just a dumb superstition
** Been so busy today. I’ll do better tomorrow.**
Superstitions
The wheel of fortune spins,
Throwing omens of ill will onto my path,
Attempting to instill fear into my life.
I laugh at the owl outside
My window in the dawn’s light,
As I snuggle close to my black cats.
Wrapped in the fragments of broken mirrors,
I step on sidewalk cracks with no qualms,
Tempting fate underneath ladders,
Dancing through rooms,
Open umbrella in hand.
I’ve no need for lucky charms,
Horseshoes or four leaf clovers,
Rabbit’s feet or found pennies.
The omens mean so little,
For once upon a time
A spider wove my initials into her web,
Bestowing good luck upon me
For the rest of my days.
Mary, I love the spider’s woven initials. Wonderful!
Exactly Last
At 13 minutes to post
on Friday the 13th
I bet $13 to win
on #13
in the 13th race -
(a gray horse
named…… LuckyLady)
at 13 to 1 odds.
As luck would have it,
LuckyLady
left the gate
last,
trailed the field
around the racetrack,
crossed the finish line
last,
13 lengths behind…….
the 1 (Havenofear) and 3 (Friday Filly).
Thirteen lucky ticket holders
collected $1300
on that 1-3 exacta
on Friday the 13th
while I tossed my unlucky ticket
in the trash…
exactly last.
I don’t go to the track often, but when I do I always bet on the gray horse. Guess I wouldn’t have been so lucky either that day.
I’m a sucker for the gray horses – so beautiful in the sunlight!!! ….and if they win it’s usually a big payoff, so it’s worth the bet! Thanks for reading my poem.
We called him Lucky
But he was far from it.
First he was run over
by the tractor.
Then the rooster
used him for pecking practice.
The tomcat hissed at him
every time Lucky walked near.
In spite of this,
he lived to a ripe old age
of fifteen,
until a tornado took
that unlucky pup
on one Friday the thirteenth.
Friday 13
I woke up
with a raging head cold.
Both cats
vomited their breakfast.
Himself
had terrible leg pains.
I hauled him off to the doctor.
By then, I was so dosed up
I managed not to sneeze
all over the waiting-room.
We both forgot to report
the shoulder pain he’s also had
for days, unresponsive
to anything we’ve tried so far.
But anyway, the doc prescribed
new medication, as a trial,
for the agonised nerves in his legs:
a quarter the usual dose
(i.e. half a tablet) to start,
at night. Come back in a week
and we’ll see if we up it.
At bedtime I opened the box.
Uh-oh, capsules. Instruction
on box: take half; on
manufacturer’s leaflet: do not
cut open the capsule
and use just the contents. So —
no medication for him this night.
We watched TV, a show I like.
He pronounced it corny.
I had a poem to write,
working in my head; stayed up
to get it written. He
interrupted, repeatedly, to insist
I ought to be in bed. I at length
erupted. (I wonder,
can the neighbours
hear me screech?)
We didn’t get much sleep.
I‘d like to be able to blame
Friday 13.
Lucky
Afterward,
they tell her how
lucky
she is
that he didn’t cut her
that he didn’t kill her
that they caught him
that he’ll never be able to do it again
but
she
doesn’t feel lucky
at all.
Oh the depth and power of these words. WOW, De. I hope this isn’t you. I hope to God this isn’t you.
Not autobiographical, Marie. Thank you.
Glad to hear it, De. I didn’t really think so, but the emotion is so raw and real.A number of you poets out here are able to capture raw emotion so well. I think it’s a gift.
Thank you, ma’am.
I am not going to jump into
The crazy pool
With a little luck
I will just wade in
The shallows
Getting toes wet
But holding my nose just in case
Because luck is a bitch
That goes her own way
With no thought for life preservers
I wade with an umbrella
The sun is shining
But just beyond that hill
There is a helluva storm
Waiting to flood
My plane and I know
The truth
You have to swim
Through the muck
To see a rainbow
Excellent piece. “You have to swim through the muck to see a rainbow” … brilliant.
thanks lol
Yes, those last 3 lines fabulous. Peace…
Excellent poem.
Mami’s second cousin, Aurora, cautioned that rotting wood and stones (in lieu of stairs) to her house were slick.
Petrichor hiked up my nose as my sister, parents and I lumbered amid the Caribbean rain, fatter than the pulp we got back in Chicago. There was no place to sit inside
and have a polite visit, where Mami and her 70 something cousin could catch up.
I was shocked to see shoes, ceramic fowls, paveras, and broken appliance stacked on a tv circa 1970, obese bags, paper piles, disembodied toys.
No floral couch, no side table or antique lamp set on a doily, instead metal chairs were placed at the door’s archway.
In the front room, where perhaps living was once done, several clotheslines, heavied with men’s pants paced the air like they had thoughts of their own.
There was a daughter, perhaps in her 40s; cheekbones beautifully positioned on a face that hid stories of perhaps abandonment of a life concrete and evident.
The few words she spoke were well educated.
Out of the blue, Aurora mentioned her son hanged himself in a bedroom she pointed to behind the rusted washer.
Her husband also died in an unspecified room in the house.
Aurora’s voice towed shame and melancholy.
I wondered if the hording was a way to trap misfortune, bury it under waste and novellas filled with absent-hearted ghosts.
This leaves me utterly speechless, Yolee. Your conclusion is most likely dead on.
Hola Marie
Thank you. The format went askew and the poem is in need of tweaks, but I certainly appreciate your kinds remarks.
I Can Hear Clearly Now
Fresh from a fitting
of expensive ear plugs,
a trainee of twenty
put a pause to my huh?’s,
My wonderful wife
beamed broadly to see
the microphoned mini’s
of total technology.
The nice news is every
wise word I now hear,
the lousy luck is it includes
trite talk, oh dear.
Oh dear, indeed. Maybe you can just turn it back down if it gets too annoying. ^_^
If you are unlucky
It’s all in your head
if you believe it,
you can get mad
if you accept it,
you attract facts
that you may regret.
Watch your acts
and your thoughts
bad luck doesn’t grow in pots!
You are the result of your mind
not of what you find:
a black cat, a ladder, a shoe horse
13 is only a number – not anything worse.
Friday? We celebrate with pizza at night!
Wanna a bite?
wow, i posted before reading, and then got to your fine piece…the first six or eight lines might have been an opener for mine
Pearls
Embraced
by a pearl necklace
laid place a stopgap
to the strain of my voice
lest it dampen
your harbored interpretation
of my promiscuous wit.
Entwined
with a red-handed catcher smitten
by his own adult reasons,
his grub wormhole full
with a gravely germinal avalanche
before a worn neck-lace.
Effaced
with jeweler’s pliers, bent-nosed
and olfactory-less workers stringing
the line, an efficient cold metal spine
strumming gemmed tones as you
thread me through
pearls.
Love, love, love–”as you thread me through pearls.”
An Unlucky Poem
(with apologies from your creator)
You could have been an Ari,
A Moskowitz, or Lee,
An Ina, Claudsy, Kemp, or Hed,
JLynn, or PSC,
Uneven Steven, JanetRuth,
Imaginalchemy,
A Shlensky, Kreider, Graham, Grove,
A Clarken or a De,
You could have been a Kolp, a Misk,
A Neas or Marjory,
A Domino, a Davidson,
A Parsons, Omavi,
An Ingraham or a Carnahan,
Alotus_poetry,
A Khara House, a Passionate,
Or Pearly PKP.
You could have been a Maxie2,
A Jordan, or Yolee,
A Powerunit, Jaywig,
Lionmother, Rosemary,
Just a Lynn, a Walraven,
A Rob or Stewart, C.,
A Yockel, Shann, a TezfromOz,
A Marcia or Rob(by)
A Margot, Christod, Caramanna,
Mansfield, or Sally,
A Carolyn, a Bayles, a Paoos,
Fitzgerald, or Posey.
You could have been a hurtin-heart,
Rosangela, Bonee,
One Deringer, JRSimmang,
A Windham, or Food-ee,
A Sharon, Hannah, Lana, Voit,
Sarite, or Jannalee,
What’eretheyaint, or castejon,
Miss R, Nimue, Deedee,
Competitive, McNulty, Earl,
A Kendall, or maggzee.
You could have been a Posmic,
Mystic, Dare, Andrea B,
A Domino, a Benjamin,
A Peters, or drwasy,
A dandelionwine, an Eel,
A Hager, an Angie,
An Anders Byland, Ber, or Lockard,
Cam4523,
(pick up 7), Niedt, Arike,
Beth Rodgers, Traci-y.
You could have been a Marian,
Patricia, LoriP,
A Joseph, Willy, abasso,
Amelia or Cindi,
A Brewer, Casey, Kelly, Young
Or born Wojtanikly,
But darn the luck, my little poem,
That you were penned by me!
I sure as heck hope I didn’t miss a single soul. If I did, please know that it isn’t that I haven’t noticed your work, or don’t appreciate. You poets ROCK … every single one of you!!
It’s my lucky day – someone knows I’m out here!!! Hooah!
Ha! Marie! What fun!
You ROCK! Most fun poem ever!
We’re lucky to have you!
This is cool!
Holy macaroni!
You and ImagineAlchemy, today!! Love this clever poem Marie Elena!!
(I find that DOUBLE the mentions makes me just as happy as only one!! <3)
LOL! ! See how special you are?!
!
OhmyWORD, Lady. This is awesome!
Thanks for including me.
Excellent, Marie! Great minds think alike (well, your great mind and my…never mind), but you actually did your homework and got everybody in there. And I didn’t die in this one! Hooray! (thanks for including me
)
wow – impressive – and just the lift this poet needed … thanks Marie Elena!
Ha! What fun. Peace…
Awesome of you, Marie Elena. Honored to be mentioned. Thank you!
Thanks so much for this.
How Fun. Thank you my lady.
Ended up with two. Neither one of them is particularly unlucky, I guess? Maybe if you look really hard.
…
Hydrant
A plaintive boy in a white T-shirt shows off his arms as he
turns
the wrench and uncaps the squat beast–
which extends a sea-colored giraffe tongue
into Sixteenth Street:
tasting the unsuspecting debris,
carrying crushed plastic bottles and cigarette packs,
maneuvering around the tires of chariot traffic
and the sensibility of the drivers,
gazing up at the shifting trees tangled with grey
bags tattered in their branches from the winter,
scooping up the protesting petals they’ve scattered,
intoxicating itself with puddles of dog piss,
chewing up the newsprint, erasing our brief histories,
frothing at the mouths of storm drains in soft white
alphabets–
surely there must have been some motivation,
pressure regulation
or the phantom threat of a flood–
but Sixteenth Street has become a Venetian promenade,
sharp-edged by the black lines of asphalt
licked clean,
reborn with reservoir water–
and though the bystanders may hate wet shoes, they– now,
even that plaintive boy–
are slowly unknotting their smiles.
…
Notes for Young Writers
She sits cross-legged on the sidewalk, with a sign
announcing homeless writer: every little bit helps!,
and I am on my way from one place to another, but
wanting nothing more than to stop for a while,
interrupt her while she fills a small notebook
with line after meticulous line and say, I could be you:
we aren’t so different in age, after all, we are here
dreaming our way into existence, being in this city
where dreams flow easy from the tip of a ballpoint pen–
but then, remembering my wallet’s in the office,
I keep going; and her face presses into the afternoon
until it can no longer be ignored; so I think of what to say,
maybe a note expressing my wish that I could help
with more than two measly dollars, maybe saying,
we’ve all done things we’re not proud of for our Art–
though in the end, I just settle for printing “Fern Hill”,
folding it in sixths around all the green I’m carrying:
I watch the clock until I can flee from this luxury,
hoping that some of my fortune will hide in these
sharp creases and pass along– but already, so soon,
she’s gone, in search of some sunnier street; now
one poem weighs heavy in my pocket and this one
broods in my head, tied up with sideswiped chances,
unsure which of us missed out on this one the most.
After reading these, I feel like I have been somewhere, a stone watching the scene unfold and I come home just a little bit hungry for more.
i’ve been doing these alone at home, calling it “PAD Therapy,” since my sister died unexpectedly last month. So here i go, daring to be vulnerable….
WE TWO.
You were gone sooner than I meant for you to be
before I was done needing you
before I got to laugh with you chat with you
about your day my day
about nothing really–
you were gone sooner than I thought you’d be
still young (ish) I’m still young (ish)
both still learning to kill the dragons of our youth
guess I’ll keep trying
trying to find peace–
peace was too hard to find in our childhood
but we both kept looking
escaping/struggling each in our own way
as we both came back
into our sister-bond
where you loved me harder than those others
who were meant to love
whose job was to protect us and keep us safe
no safety in that house
not even in your room–
our bodies carried memories of the secrets
in that place called “home”
more of a battlefield/warzone really
you straight to the fray,
me hiding in the closet—
grown-ups, we tried to help each other learn
to repair the deep holes
left behind from the bombing in childhood
you, to let your guard down
me, to put mine up—
and I think we’d made some movement forward
but you’re at peace now
the peace surpassing my understanding
and I’m the unlucky one
left without you.
oops–missing a line break after “peace” up there.
A True Story
“Write an unlucky poem,”
The man said. I tried, but
It was a painful process,
Because at that moment
My computer froze up
And had a good laugh
At my expense.
BEHIND
On the street
before me a man
dragged his right leg
behind, a blue plastic
bag banged against
his thigh, the bottle
of malt sloshed
against his jaw
slack as the waist
of his jeans
sunk lower
and lower
with each lurch
more chalk-dusted
buttock revealed
I did not want to look
but could not help
myself or him,
or the shame of it all
***
Peace, LindaS-W
I agree. A lot here. Nice job.
Wow…just wow
“… Living Under A Falling Sun”
Lost
Found the gold
Nurtured it and it grew
So big and so bold
So strong did this little glimmer
Of hope and perseverance grow
So far the fall
Goosebumps rise as ground grows cold
Trying
Struggling and fighting and winning
Thinking once again that
This light is finally mine
Watching it shine and reaching up
Only to find the ceiling lowered
Brittle ladder rungs shatter
Stalled again is the climb
Lost in the paradox
Perpetually sinking or maybe the horizon
Just continues to rise and rise
Every one step forwards leads to three behind
Only tears are the comfort
Only taste on the tongue
Is the bitter realization that platinum stars
Are filled with a salty brine
Wow. Tons of beautiful imagery here.
Unfortunate DNA
It is what keeps me saturated in
SPF 45 sunblock on warm days spent
walking the bustling, shore boardwalk,
the sun’s power heating my pale, pale skin.
It is responsible for the moles that
dot the landscape of my face, that
could connect, like destinations on a
map, if you were to draw a line from
the left, to the middle, to the right.
It is what makes me prone to mild eczema
on my legs, covers my shoulders,
arms and back with freckles.
It is what could make me susceptible to
prostate cancer, like my father had to
endure in his sixties.
It is the reason why I can never find a
single pair of shoes at DSW, on the main
floor or the clearance section, that will
house these oddball, mammoth feet.
Year of the Ox
I really should say that my luck
ran out the door, but that would mean
that you wouldn’t believe me, dismissing it
like any other cliche. But today, the rain
puddles just didn’t flow right. They didn’t
wrap along the street curbs but found sidewalk
and road cracks to be more comfortable.
They went over my calves, muddying
my newly polished shoes, and I was late
for an important meeting with the directors,
who looked all the same: bald, bored
and much too bold in personality while I tried
not to hurl in front of the mic talking about
technological strategies of some hypothetical future.
Dinner with the girlfriend meant breaking up
over a fortune cookie when she repeated what I said,
“You could do better” when she asked if
I love her. I meant to say that
I didn’t hear her question at first,
but was busy eating the last cookie crumbs
while reading out loud what the fortune had said.
Instead, she whacked me with her Louis Vuitton bag,
spilled her glass of martini on my lap, stuck
chopsticks straight up in my bowl,
and stalked out the door, leaving me
with some guy’s phone number whom I thought
was her business consultant who turned out
to be a sleazy guy she’s been seeing
on the side. I’m happy I didn’t
propose to her tonight as I’m sitting
here with a 1.5 carat princess-cut diamond ring
upset that I’m not getting laid tonight.
Oh well, here’s to you, kid.
http://alotus-poetry.livejournal.com/136738.html
What a bad day!!! Good poem, though!
Luck for the Luckless
It was that kind of day again.
The bed, usually soft and warm,
shook me out on the wrong side.
I stumbled, shook, struggled to find the alarm clock.
Usually, my right foot touches the berber first.
Today, my left led a lighted charge to my phone,
9 minutes before the alarm was supposed to go off.
I have nothing to show but a broken night stand.
My shower, raining ice, and coffee cold.
Traffic, need I say more.
I three leaf clover stuck to my shoe,
glued with the hours old excrement of
that stupid shi tzu.
My boss told me to pack my desk
(it fit in a box)
and my tires- flat.
Things were surely to look up.
The mechanics were late,
short and ineloquent,
my fender bent.
My dinner was wrong,
that’s what I get for pulling through,
and when all was finally at the end,
the sunset.
Unlucky?
By
Arrvada
I broke a mirror
Spilled the salt
Knocked on wood and prayed
Swerved to avoid the cat
Hit a ladder and got a flat
Stood in the rain and cried
When I saw my spare was spent
Cursed the fates, cursed my luck
Heard the sound of a pickup truck
Turned around not sure what to expect
Fell in love because of a cat
See! Bad luck my eye! ^_^ Lovely!
Well, time to rethink what is unlucky and what is not.
My absolutely positively new favorite word.
“Widdershins”
My toes are too crampy to hold
a pencil today, my eyes can’t smile
a beat, the sun is going up at dusk—
It’s a widdershins kind of day-
My big old head is screwed on back-
wards, I only see the hind end of me,
my head is too wobbly with cold fever
to drink one single shot of simile.
It’s a widdershins kind of day-
the thirteenth time this year.
I would get up and give a cheer
but my lips can’t hear a thing.
What a lucky gal I am today on
this thirteenth day of luck.
No rhymes, no beat, no fluff, no form,
just a widdershins, widdernshins
upon my chinnerchins
(cuz one widdeshins isn’t enough)
on this widdershins . . .
. . . oh, this shinwidders
. . . this ddinshidders,
on this widdershinners kind of day.
You make me want to sing it!! ^_^
I love that word, too! And this poem!
Ah, thanks.
Thanks for the new word and what a word it is! And what a poem! Delightful!
I just realized I turned around Robert’s prompt – my poem is more about being lucky. Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a ghazal. So here is a short ghazal about luck.
Serendipity
Why should the date and day of the week dictate
whether or not our day will be full of poor luck?
So many talismans – the broken mirror, the ladder,
the crossing black cat, the rabbit’s foot we rub for luck.
Being in the right place at the right time – or
the wrong place at the wrong time –makes your luck.
Not getting on the Titanic or Buddy Holly’s plane;
Being the one millionth customer – that is sure luck.
Meeting you the way I did – in the dorm lounge
that September day – I couldn’t have asked for more luck.
Yours is about how not to be unlucky. That still follows the prompt!! And I like yours a lot just the way it is!
Unlucky Choices
I fell hard that day at the big rodeo
That stubble, steely eyes and big jaw
But your wicked black hat set my heart aglow
I’m a sucker for a handsome outlaw
We were drinking and dancing full throttle
Swinging parties in every new town
Drank the booze, ate the worm, threw the bottle
Now some little girl wants to settle you down
You broke my heart but the joke is on you
I gave you more than it’s your right to take
Your dog will be gone and your red pickup too
I’m leaving with a biker named Snake
Hard living, hard loving, that’s my life
But call me if you ever leave your wife
Ha! Call me if you ever leave your wife!!!
Bad Day Blues (Tanka)
My fat black cat crossed
the path of oncoming truck.
Truck carried ladder.
My girl walked under ladder.
Thirteen days later, she died.
O_O
Love yours, Robert. Here’s mine:
April 13, 2012 – Day 13
Write an unlucky poem
Oh What A World (parallelogram De Crystalline)
I’ve got her
and her dog, locked up tight,
no escape, slayers of my sister.
Poppy fields failed
to fell her; that Glynda,
Miss sugar-voiced Good Witch, waved her wand.
Now sand grains
spill, measure moments left.
After death, those ruby slippers are mine.
What’s this then?
Greedy girl wields bucket,
blasts me with water. Help! I’m melting.
Cute!
The Lotto
Winning the lotto
is apparently bad news
based on studies of
prior winners who’re broke.
I’d like to be unlucky!
‘Nother one. (Older poem, same prompt.)
http://whimsygizmo.wordpress.com/2011/05/19/spilled-salt/
Lucky I was home
Sitting at the window
watching the outside
world, when a thud
surprises me. A small
bird tumbles to
the ground.
I rush to have
a look, and the wee
fellow is face down,
wings spread
in the snow.
Gently, I carry
him into the house
to rest. He is stunned
but breathing.
I hold him close to
my heart and wish
him back to health.
In short order, he
is ready to fly.
<3 Just beautiful!
Unlucky
Unlucky-ness,
Is a clumsy word.
It portends disaster,
And trips on its syllables,
Leading you to change,
Over and over to use it.
I guess it was an unlucky
Choice of words.
Winning Good Fortune
Most luck
turns on your spin;
and serendipitous
shoulder-to-the-wheel struggle; not
random.
I’m mostly only continuing this because I said I would…this is tied to three previous poems I posted the last three days (I recap the basic storyline in this poem so no one needs to go back and look at the others) as a semi-challenge to myself to write five poems in a continuous storyline. And once again, Thank you to everyone for all your comments about the “Battle of the WD Poets” poem earlier today
CHAPTER FOUR—The Price of Misfortune
“DO NOT GO FURTHER!” cried the bird
As it circled high above, being a hassle
While down below a girl with plum-blossom hair
And a fiery-eyed sprite walked up to the castle.
“I know you two: Plum, the girl born a tree
Who uprooted herself in the deep wood.
And the fire-eater, the sprite who craves flame
And is usually up to no good.
You have come all this way to see Her Majesty
About the forest’s burning, but I warn you, turn back!
You will find no mercy or compassion here,
You will only end up as Her Majesty’s snack!”
“Who are you, little bird?” asked Plum,
“How do you know us? Why are you here?
How do you know Her Majesty’s cruelty?
Why do you instill us with such fear?”
“I’m the Karmaburra, a keeper of universal balance.
I once belonged to Her Majesty, happily serving
When she was once known as the Fortune Queen
And granted good and bad luck to those deserving.
But then she grew selfish, hoarding all good fortune
For herself, and only giving her subjects bad.
She became rich and powerful, the people poor and weak
I tell you, I was tired of us being had!
So I decided to steal away her luck powers
But such magic is tied to a person’s soul,
So while she slept, I plucked out her soul-seed
And I escaped before she knew what I stole.
I dropped the seed in the deep ancient wood,
Hoping it might be lost from her forever.
But one day I flew over the spot, and saw
A plum tree was growing, and it was quite clever,
For it learned to grow feet and walked away,
And now it is standing here before me today.”
“So Her Majesty is burning down the forest,
Looking for her soul in the soil, which is me?”
Plum was quite frightened, but stood straight and tall,
And said, “Let me in to see Her Majesty.”
“So you ARE quite dumb,” said the fire-eater.
“Did you hear the bird? About the snack?
She wants her soul-seed, which is within you,
She’ll devour you if you don’t turn back.”
“Perhaps it is destined, or just my ill luck,
But I can’t let the old trees suffer and die in flame.
Maybe there is something I can do to make things right,
I’m not afraid of Her Majesty, if we are one in the same.”
So Plum thanked the Karmaburra for his warning,
Thanked the fire-eater for guiding her there,
And then entered the place of Her Majesty,
To face whatever fate awaited her in this lair.
Imagine, I totally need a link to your blog or website to get the whole story in all its glory!!
Unlucky Me
Born Friday the thirteenth
Just what could be worse?
Dad was a mortician,
rode home in a hearse.
Mom was a worrier
She watched over me
with bell book and candle,
esprit, and weak tea.
My childhood? A strange one.
I thought I was cursed.
But it wasn’t that long
ere my doubts had reversed.
See, what always happened
would look just like trouble
But when the dust settled
I’d still stand (in the rubble).
And those all around me
thought I was the greatest.
and all hung around me,
newest to latest.
So I learned to worry
about all my friends.
Because they seemed destined
to meet untimely ends.
And so I spend my life
watching o’er theirs
(They think I’m just kindly
and someone who cares.)
But I’ll always worry
that someday I’ll be
unable to stop something,
that I’ll be absentee.
So I keep on working
and trying my best
just saving my friends
from bad luck’s bequest.
Diana Terrill Clark
Huh, so it can be unlucky to be lucky (kind of like winning the lottery…not good when all your relatives and friends come knocking on your door looking for a share). A lovely poem from a compassionate heart.
^_^ Thanks Imagine!! It was a fun one to write!
Love this, Diana.
No Such Thing
The luck of the draw
Sticks in my craw.
Luck’s not bad
Or good to be had,
A mere quirk of fate
Now that I’d hate!
Unlucky for me
May be lucky for thee.
Don’t tell me of loss
Life gave you a toss,
Get on your feet
And be upbeat!
Marilyn
My father wanted to name me Daphne.
My mother laughed at him, said, “No way.”
I was given, instead, an unlucky name, one
that was years too old for me and as made-up
as that bleached-blonde starlet who died
naked in her bed. Somehow, too, it was the
name of everyone’s favorite aunt or grandma
or school librarian, and so it is equal parts
fishnet stocking and rolled-down knee-high,
a bad fit for me, either way. I inhabit my name
but do not love it. How unlucky, too, that I
have no nickname, though some friends tried
to invent one for me, and I tried to rename
myself in college, something shorter, but it
just wouldn’t stick. My name clings to me
like an unctuous perfume, like a whiff of
sex among forgotten stacks, in a dark and
quiet corner in the library of my mind.
Sorry you hate your name, but I loved this poem. – Moskowitz
Thanks, Mosk! I don’t hate it, exactly — it’s just not quite right. I like it better in print than out loud. Hmm, maybe that’s why I seek lots of publishing credits.
“and so it is equal parts
fishnet stocking and rolled-down knee-high,”
i love how your brain works.
Unlucky
prancing across roof
air powered equalizer
unlucky squirrel
peanut buttered nut
can not resist temptation
rat trap successful
a lifetime slighted
when dreams go down faster than
a crooked boxer
It happens
That time stands still
When bad news looms.
Yet when you wish
For a moment longer
A brief chance to gather your thoughts
Cherish the love and magic of good times
Gain a semblance of continuity
The world seems to pass by.
A flurry of words
Phrases
And condescension that you could
Have possibly had the time to cherish
The way life is right then and there
Is lost
Only to be found when you wait on life
To bring you more goodness
Which will follow the same cycle
Never allowing a sense of complete
And utter
Appreciation.
Thought provoking for sure.
13 is Not My Unlucky Number
You say Friday the 13th and spooky
in the same sentence. You say unlucky.
I say Friday the 13th and birthday.
Being born on the 13th day has its own burdens.
To see ill luck upon my special day
would be an unlucky omen, oxymoron.
Bad luck cancelling good? Imagine
what kind of birthday wishes I might
choose, blowing out candles in an ill wind.
I always counter the bad luck quotes.
My lucky number is often 13.
Carol A. Stephen
April 13, 2012
I like “blowing out candles in an ill wind.”
lol, thanks posmic! Carol
Just In Case
I avoid walking
under ladders
and will skid
out of the path
of a black cat.
I knock on wood
and scratch
the interior ceiling
of any car I’m in
when going through a
yellow light.
If the car radio
is playing “Respect”
by Aretha Franklin
I shut it off
because it was playing
when I was in
that car crash
back in 1985.
I don’t have
lucky lotto numbers,
but I do have
a lucky number -
anything that isn’t
13.
If I spill the salt
I sweep it up and
throw it
over my shoulder
and I always pick
my wife’s handbag
up off the floor,
so she’ll never be poor.
I always take tests
with freshly sharpened pencils
so I am using pencil points
that never made
an error.
And whenever
I have to do a
Power Point presentation
for the
Board of Trustees,
I attach and it send
to 3 different
email accounts
always with the memo line
JIC (Just In Case),
and bring the presentation
on two separate
flash drives.
And every Friday
I wish my wife
“Happy Anniversary”
mostly out of love
and a little bit
out of fear
of what’ll happen if
I forget,
because
you can’t be
too careful.
Your wife gets anniversary greetings every Friday? Lucky lady!
Yes, and for the record, it’s week #489.
You made me laugh! loved it.
You are too funny, B.
Unlucky
Opening tipped up,
The horseshoe over my door
Holds in all its luck
Unlike my arms, heart, the space
In the bed, empty, where you slept.
OH…so much power in so few words. Lovely.
Make today
your unlucky day
Look to your self
not to the stars
Laugh in the fanciful
face of fate
Make today
your unlucky day
Unlucky in Love: Poor Male
There she is, so coy
Delicate in black negligée,
Waiting for my attentions.
Whisper soft, I approach
Her boudoir, quick stepping
To show off my prowess.
We meet, ah, sweet surrender.
Wait! Not yet! Too late.
Her juices leave me dying.
For her love, her magnificence,
I give myself to her, twitching,
A sacrifice to her hourglass self.
© Claudette J. Young 2012
Friday the 13th Eve
(for Chief Michael Maloney)
The shot turns live
from the newsdesk
to that dark NH street,
the one whose name
they keep repeating
with the crooked sign
strobing blue. The
reporter isn’t ready–
how could he be?
The man that went
down with the four
others isn’t there.
The reporter stands
alone, clutches
his microphone
as one sure thing
in the night, averting
eyes from the camera,
but we hear it in his
voice. He knew the
guy. Police chief,
twelve years with the
town, go-to man for
local breaking stories,
just eight days from
retirement. On the spot,
the reporter pieces
the facts together as
best he can, because
the chief’s no longer
taking interviews.
My first for the day. Robert, you did it again.
On This Day
Watch where you step,
Your mother’s involved.
Beware the ladder’s tunnel,
The feline noir’s crossing.
Never mention the Scottish play
Or purse your lips on stage.
Who’d’ve thought soap
And tub would do me in?
© Claudette J. Young
THE GREATEST SONG YOU NEVER HEARD
and just last night, Alice and I were walking home from
Fat Apple’s, talking about buying Hacienda Palomino,
Michael Jackson’s estate in Las Vegas, rather affordable
at four mil, living there during the sweet spring and fall
times and the rest of the year, leaving it in the care of all
our artist friends, giving ten or a dozen of them the space
to create work and live, an artist colony, a School, right
there beside the casinos, but always looking northward
toward Red Rock, so much more majestic. “You could
sell some of your paintings to raise the millions,” I said,
“and I could sell some hot poems.” This made us laugh.
We’re done with all that trickery and nightmare knotting.
We keep making our work for love and nothing, living
among neighbors and waking ourselves up from programs
about what’s good luck and what’s bad. We chose what
we chose and, remaining in love, we walk home full-
bellied, hand-in-hand—and look—laughing all the way.
FangO
Sweet. I really liked “nightmare knotting.” Well put.
Luck or is it
We are the lucky nation
Or so it is said
We hold the pots of gold
And the lucky clover beds
The leprechauns, the stories
The blarney stone it cures
All of those unsightly sores
Hundreds come to kiss it or rub it with their skin
Others come to drink the Guinness, the whiskey and the gin
We hold stories of ghosts and fantasy
Of headless horsemen and banshee
Of dead working men there be
The fields they spell out wonders
And tales of times gone by
Afraid to wonder down them
The truth of who haunts them and why?
The rivers that run through them and portals of time gone by
Don’t read the cards of life
For who knows what you get
Don’t let the ace of spades come up
It is your biggest threat
How lucky you are
It all depends on you
Spend time worrying about it
Can be easy to do
This day do the lotto
To see what will be
And if you’re lucky enough
The leprechauns luck may pass
It’s shining hand over you
But is it luck you need
Or is walking under the ladder
A true tale indeed
So as the day passes wonder and watch out
For the black cat that passes
Don’t forget to wish him luck
Back to read later…. Good luck to all!
Okay people, get out your crackers because I’m about to serve up some cheese.
St. Patrick’s Day (A most unfortunate Tanka)
I can’t get lucky
A ginger with a green beer
The night should be mine
But the ladies don’t care that
I’m magically delicious
Not cheese, dried marshmallows! Great! Cute! Sale on exclamation points!
Hahaha, dried marshmallows? Is that something they say out in Cali? Clearance on question marks?
One in a Thousand
He went to the left
while the ball bounced right.
The black cat crossed his path
on a dark and lonely night.
He held the winning hand
until the river card was turned.
He trusted everyone
and repeatedly got burned.
He didn’t look both ways
before he crossed the street.
He never knew of the poison,
he was about to eat.
Maybe one in a thousand
the undertaker said.
Nine hundred ninety-nine
don’t end up dead.
By Michael Grove
very final a reaction of something
Good one, Michael.
Is There Anymore?
I thought I saw a shooting star:
it was a baseball; trashed my car.
“Why me?” I cried – and then I swore.
I wondered: is there anymore?
I plucked a penny off the street.
I thought, ‘Good luck will follow. Sweet!’
It was on tails: bad luck in store.
I wondered: is there anymore?
A flock of birds flew overhead.
That’s good luck, right? Uh uh. Instead
those birds rained droppings by the score.
I wondered: is there anymore?
But then, I told myself, “Just quit!
You’re asking ‘tempting’ questions. It
cannot end well. You can be sure,
that if you ask, there will be more.”
###
A Fisherman’s Paradise (Delayed)
A shift in the wind
West to north-west
blue waters tipped with white caps
A choppy bay
And rougher lake.
Listen to the fishermen
grumbling over their breakfast coffee.
Their promised week-end of fishing
already one day lost.
Unlucky Day
We never talk about it, that day of shatterings
In the hospital when grandma’s long goodbye
Lifted in a momentary frenzy of truth,
As if the bellows of her soul could not sustain
The heaviness of silent years, the friction of life
Meeting death inside her mind forcing breathe
To form into words never spoken.
Her fractious lucidity broke through
The soil of her mind to splinter family trees.
She spoke of a secret day when he came
Across the Pacific in his wrinkled uniform
To be all that he could be, but you said no
In a language he didn’t hear, screamed it
For your husband and your sons.
Our homogeneous blood diluted in a day,
Answering the question-mark hook
That always snagged the back of my mind,
Explaining the lingering pain of two generations,
The lightness of my hair that should have been black
As the coal tears smudged beneath your eyes,
Black as the heart of a man I hate, but yearn to know.
I’ll never know.
I’m open to suggestions on the title. “Unlucky Day” feels a bit trite, but I couldn’t think of anything else.
so sad
I enjoyed your poem. I agree the title doesn’t quite fit with the rhythm and tone of the poem. I don’t have any suggestions but given time I’m sure you’ll find something that fits better.
Thanks, Steven. I’ll keep thinking on it.
i vote for “Lucidity”– this poem is so full of good story i really enjoyed it!
Ooh, good suggestion. Thanks!
Paradox
Four-leaf clover. Ah!
Now lucky day, lucky life!
Good fortune assured!
Was I unlucky before?
Then, how did I find good luck?
Luck Beggar
My four-leaf clover’s broken.
My dandelion’s blown.
My horseshoe got turned upsidedown
and now the luck is gone.
My rabbit’s foot is still attached.
My bracelet’s lost its charms.
My candles have all burned out
and my stars are spilled too far.
My Magic 8 Ball simply said,
“Ask me again tomorrow.”
Does anybody out there have
some luck that I could borrow?
“My stars are spilled too far!” I love that line, De!
Thank you, Hannah.
Love that blown dandelion!
LUCK OF THE LOKI
If you end up with the very last pup
of the litter, are you unlucky?
The one who couldn’t find a home,
they called her defective – is she unlucky?
If you think you see something special
in her, are you deluded, or unlucky?
It’s No! Leave the cat alone! Don’t chew
on that! Is she untrained or unlucky?
And will she finally settle down
to be a good dog? Are you wise, or lucky?
This is so good my dog was the runt of the litter and he is so loving and good still small but so loyal and has such good behaviour
it was a month of thirteen fridays
and every one of them fell on thirteen
there were red imps out on the street
with poison pitchforks, and the heat broke
weather records like cheap mirrors. more
people were out of work than had a job to go to,
and the lucky, lucky, lucky
had three part-time positions doing the work of two.
the moon was always black
and tribulation rained on the world
brown recluse spiders, bedbugs, ticks,
antibiotic resistant staph infections
war and famine and contaminated water
too many cars and the end in sight for oil and gas.
it was a month of thirteen fridays
and every one of them fell on thirteen
everywhere you looked was meanness
kicking stabbing murder rape scamming people
of their last salvaged dollars, killing children
so they won’t one day grow up
and look a cross-eyed look.
and the earth was shaking cracks across its back
realizing it would someday die.
and the legislators decided
to do away with all this
bad luck.
what will we do? they asked each other.
what will we do? what will we do?
they put their feet on the table
and thought about it that way
then they put their feet down.
they turned their chairs around
and straddled the backs
and thought about it that way
then they turned them back.
ate a sandwich took a nap took
something for that headache, and agreed
to redefining bad as good and making it a crime
to question their decision or suggest
what came to pass was anything
but how things ought to be.
so be it said upon this day
from now on out all luck is good luck
all fridays are the thirteenth
and every friday
is Hunky-Dory Day.
Unlucky Traveling Ghazal
An abandoned pond off the highway
breeds unlucky
As morning sun gleams on scum and naked stalk
For the unlucky
Below driest air, engines stalled on tracks
run unlucky
As long winged hawks circle and prey on sacred alms
For the unlucky
Bumper to bumper in traffic, I wrap
myself unlucky
As FM radio wails me weary in top 40 ballad pop
For the unlucky
UNLUCKY
Topic: unlucky
Trying to think of instance
Not a one to mind
So Existentialism
Has had an effect on me
Non Bon
Your ship came in today
you say,
Your voyage begins
without delay.
I saw the deck,
I smell the sea.
Lucky you.
Unlucky me.
Oh, the luck!!! Love these!!
Thanks, Hannah.
Day 13 – unlucky
1. that bloated kangaroo
beside the freeway
victim of dusk and speeding
driver
2. the white cat stretched
taut on skinny branches
sent flying by irate
bird-lover
3. passionfruit vine I
continue to pull off
the bushes it uses
for life support
4. the stinky-bug nursery
disturbed when compost bin lid
is lifted
5. the foxtail bush
overwhelmed by rampant
grevillea growth
6. old webs and sentinel
spiders I sweep
from eaves
7. the magpie that just had to
grab one more morsel
off the tarred road
and became carrion
8. the fox that tried to
cross the road lit by
headlights
9. the multitudes of children
in the Congo catching
measles
10. people born on islands
being swallowed by the sea
11. my favourite footy team
beaten tonight
12. women and children
sold and stolen
for sex
13. the number thirteen
Mmm…Jaywig some perspective on “luck,” good thoughts.
I liked your list, in part because it gave me a window onto life in your part of the world!
OOOOooo, so many hurts.
We lived in Balaklava, SA
1972-1977
Love reading about down-under
Should of stayed in Bed
If luck was something to be had
I no this day will turn out bad
For its Friday the 13th you see
It is never that good for me
I wake up and bang my head
Off the knob on the bed
As my feet hit the floor
He lets out a snore
The noise it makes me jump of my skin
He turns around happy
Smiling he grins
I look at him with one of my looks
His eyes closed tight
Together like hooks
As I look to myself in the mirror
I feel like a dog’s dinner
Washing my face to refresh my mind
Oh no here it comes
I pull down the blind
Stepping my way down the stairs
Feeling the nerves the hairs on my neck
What will happen now?
I proclaim
It’s all looking good
When bang goes the door
I feel myself jump
A mile off the floor
On I go everything is going fine
Until I put the washing on the line
Then snap it goes
Its all on the ground
The dog is rolling around in it
While I standing shouting at him
Having a lunatic fit
So I sit and sob at the table
I try to gather myself
What more can happen?
He is still up in bed napping
So as I attempt to join the outside world
I walk along I am doing fine
I am proud
When out of no where as I turn to see
A car drives by a massive puddle
Drowning me
I am wet, fed up
Beyond despair
My new hair do
Is replaces with dirty curly hair
Tom “Luck-Of-The-Draw”
He wandered through
His life, from boyhood
Picked last for every team
holes sprung in candy filled
pockets from a suddenly unsewn seam
smilingly he wandered through
boyhood to the dawning march of
hapless years as a pimple sprouting teen
packing on waddled poundage from tiny plated salads
while all about him clear skinned youths ran pizza-stuffed sinewed lean
His mother smiled kindly said it was nothing ” just the luck of the so-called draw”
He tended to agree until at forty-four finally smiling at the altar
His Maggie Bridey handcuffed, and carried as she nearly reached him, caught in the long arms of the law
All this before the town assembled in their fineried shining best
Tom Luck- Of -The -Draw stopped his gentle smiling, pulled a pearl handed gun pressed against his chest
“I’m sorry ” he mouthed to his mother in her pale blue shantung suit sitting in first row
Of course to no one but him the tepid misfired click came as no surprise to all there in the Tom-wayed know
Yet, he turned, awakened – his life transformed as a suddenly inspired model of good natured resiliency
Straightened back his shoulders, took one, then two steps forward, tripped on a camera wire he did not see
And lurched onto the unforgiving paving stones – as an egg shell cracked his whacked hard hapless head
Doc Williams, who into this world announced his birth so long ago, knelt to pronounce Tom stone cold dead
whoops! spacing off! Just unlucky I guess
this took my breath away love it
Of All the Luck
I accidentally walked
under a ladder on my
way to your house to
-day but then I found
a penny (heads)and
I’m quite sure mama
always said they can
-cel each other out. So
here I am on my way
to you with absolutel
-ly no dumb luck at all.
Aaack. Pllllllt. “Of all the luck,” indeed. Typo. Here it is, corrected:
Of All the Luck
I accidentally walked
under a ladder on my
way to your house to
-day but then I found
a penny (heads) and
I’m quite sure mama
always said they can
-cel each other out. So
here I am on my way
to you with absolute
-ly no dumb luck at all.
Haha De – good one! – Poor “Tom’s” title was just changed before posting from “Tom Some-Dumb-Luck”.
. Happy 13th!
Thank you, Pearl. I liked yours, too.
Luck Defenestration
“It is bad luck to fall out of a thirteenth story window on Friday.” ~American Proverb
“I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those you dislike?” ~Jean Cocteau
I wish my team would win. (It won’t.)
I wish you’d leave, but no you don’t.
I wonder why those I abhor
in final seconds, somehow score.
I interviewed. A new career?
Nope! Didn’t get the job, I hear.
I wonder why those I abhor
in final seconds, somehow score.
Some get the guy or girl (or cat)
but I get zilch. What’s up with that?
I wonder why those I abhor
in final seconds, somehow score.
I’d be the one to rearrange
the desk chairs on Titanic. Strange?
Well, not for me. I’d do that chore
but just for once, I’d like to score.
###
Surviving Luck
“Make your own luck”—
we all remembered his saying,
as he debunked black cats,
ladders, rings around the moon,
and Fridays landing on thirteen.
We reminisced about how
our worst decisions became
comedies of errors and bright
good fortune, if only we could
survive them, then we dropped
handfuls of soil into his grave,
trying not to stumble on uneven
ground back to our cars and
lucky lives. Nobody wanted
the recipe he used to make
this last batch of luck.
Rabbits Foot
Why don’t people see
That this good luck charm comes from
Bunny amputees?
This one made me laugh (although should I laugh at dismembered bunnies?)
Is that what happened to “Bad Luck Bunny”?
Unlucky
Not one to admit her superstitions,
she still circumvented ladders,
shuddered at a black cat’s crossing,
stockpiled four-leaf clovers,
pressed inside the pages of her books,
as if they might ward off disasters
she had come to dread. Unexpected
joy left her wary, waiting for sorrow
to come in its wake. Each gift,
she felt, left her more open to loss,
until she found a love so true
he taught her to see her own beauty
reflected even in a broken mirror.
Simply beautiful.
Agreed!
How perfectly beautiful, Nancy.
The heat beats down on the back of my
head and salty perspiration from my
upper lip drips into my mouth.
I hug my son’s gun, I kiss it; hot
hard steel, with the smell of
strangely sweet oil.
This tall and thick machine
will guard my son. My grief
is loud inside me. My son sighs in
remorse for my sadness.
sad:(
Dear Moosehead,
Well Mon brave, a serious amount of
green was earnt yesterday and here we are at
last. Lucky old me! Home opener weekend and the harpies
out of town! Yep! the only unlucky people this weekend are
Jimmy the Greek, the good people of Atlanta and those
no-good As who are gonna get their butts kicked all the
way back to Anaheim! I’m short and to the point this fine
Friday 13th my Queens-dwelling friend as we need to get the
dogs and beer in early. Pick ya up at 12 – my shout for the
refreshments.
Yours turning round three times and spitting
Ringo the Howler
Saw a penny,
Picked it up,
Got run over by a truck.
Blew a dandelion for a wish.
Ended up becoming a fish.
Tried to wish upon a star.
Now I’m behind bars.
As luck would have it,
I can’t find,
A break of any kind!
LUCK AND OTHER PECULIAR MYTHS
A shower of salt
thrown over my left shoulder
Four tiny black paws
A cat meows at my feet
I don’t believe in bad luck
A Tanka for the Poetic Form Challenge
She had to admit
this one had her stuck
she’s not paraskevidekatriaphobic
she just doesn’t believe in ‘luck’
***
Finally she worked up the nerve to call…
Buying the biggest ficus tree she could find
she carried it up two flights of stairs
to your apartment.
The lady across the hall called ‘hey’
Don’t you know? He moved…
Yesterday.
***
Jack-pot…not
We all waited
Breath baited
This was the moment
It was all about!
The winner is…
Lights flicker and fizz…
and just like that
the power went out
***
There’s no hope in a rabbit’s foot
or in number sevens
and there’s no such thing as luck…
I looked down as I spoke
Wishing I wasn’t broke…
…hey, look, I found a buck!
***
Lucky for you
I have a bad memory
***
I remember too late
what I forget…
Now, I wish I could forget
What I hate to remember…
***
The money tree
in our back-yard
musta’ got frost-bitten
and bitten hard
***
For better of worse
Be it blessed or cursed
For the rest of your life
I am your wife
If it weren’t for bad luck
We’d have no luck, you say
Well babe, I plan to make you
the happiest unlucky man today
***
A bunch of clever meditations! Nice.
I’ve been loving your groupings as of these days, Janet. I like these words together too!!
We all waited
Breath baited
Smiles!
Not strictly just about bad luck, but, well you’ll see why I had to write it….it’s been a funny old week!
As Luck Would Have It
The week has had more than its share
of ups and downs
of bad luck
good luck
and what the ____! luck
Monday saw a prime teaching contract cancelled
Monday saw a private client no longer able to take classes
Monday saw the loss of a favourite tie-pin
Tuesday saw the contract re-instated
Tuesday saw a new client cancel this week’s class (her first!)
Wednesday saw an empty classroom and a mind full of doubts
Wednesday saw the car fail its annual road-worthiness test
Wednesday saw the beloved tie-pin found again
Thursday saw the outlay of too much cash to fix the car
Thursday saw a narrow escape on a pedestrian crossing
Friday saw the chance of a new stable client
Friday saw the car pass its re-test
Friday saw, with not an ounce of luck involved,
the weekend just around the corner
and not, as luck would have it, a minute too soon!
Iain
I see what you mean – an eventful week, and I like the title.
Thanks
Yikes. What a weeek. Funny that Friday the 13th seems to be the best day of the lot!
Definitley! And it’s just finished beautifully with a great Suckling Pig dinner
Pattern Luck
People have all kinds of superstitions
about how it’s bad luck to change.
Like athletes wearing the same underwear,
we go about a routine we’ve developed,
not because it makes sense
but because it worked once.
And you don’t want to mess with fate.
But what if you do change?
Would something terrible happen?
Or would your life become a little more efficient
and a little less dull?
The one that got away
?y deqr ?qry Qnn,
as luck zould hqve it
I hqve procured the only
typezriter here in Berlin
to send you this ?essqge.
I ?iss you so.
You hqve bezitched ?y heqrt
qnd hqve become ?y aueen qnd ?y ?use.
Noz, zith qll the weql of ?y zqr? soul
I qsk you hu?bly: Zill you ?qrry ?e…
Qll ?y love, Qndrez
Nice. I really did laugh out loud. Good job, and very resourcful on the letter writer’s part.
Ditto – the laughter and the resourcefulness.
I’m with, Lori!! Great and fun one Andrew!
Thanks, all! I was once confronted with one of those German keyboards, and it got the better of me…
Who Cares?!
“Some people are so fond of bad luck they run halfway to meet it.” ~Douglas William Jerrold
If not for bad luck, I’d have none,
since Karma makes her big end run
around my hopes and dreams and prayers.
My good luck fairy shrugs. “Who cares?!”
A mirror breaking, comets, bats,
the number thirteen, damned black cats,
and daggers, empty rocking chairs…
my good luck fairy nods. “Who cares?!”
Inside my house, umbrellas go
from closed to open, and although
I take precautions, I despair.
My good luck fairy laughs. “Who cares?!”
I need an amulet to ward
off stuff like moon eclipses, stored
and waiting for me, like nightmares.
My good luck fairy winks. “Who cares?!”
###
Excellent.
Great! I like this a lot.
Clever as always, RJ
Is it just bad luck?
Or a weird roundabout way
God answers prayers
SEEMS LIKE 1600 MILES
Hearts converge at a moment
and yet the feeling is distant,
despite instant connections.
It reflects on the condition
of the unconditional, merely
a positional juxtapostion
of spirits and soulful touches
of imagined hands. It stands to reason,
it would be more pleasing
to be closerthanthisclose,
but the most that can be hoped for
is coping with the chasm of distance.
Friday of thirteen
Leaning ladder on barn door
Crops fail suddenly
No Luck at All
At 17 we dated,
then we did not.
Why, when I had never loved like that?
We dated for a day at 24 or 25,
a day I did not want.
Sometimes I would get that rare visit
or call,
once a letter,
but I rebuffed again and again.
Then I married
a man from church
a man who was very attentive and had sparkling eyes.
Fast forward 10 years.
I went to the counselor at church
in fear
I cannot remember what I told her.
She said she could not help
I needed someone with more education
more knowledge
a therapist,
now!
Puzzled, I put that suggestion away.
He would never allow that.
Another 5 years
I was frantic
fear relentless
panic all around.
I found the therapist
and went.
She talked with me
the children
and interviewed him.
Puzzling because it was
not the kind of thing he would do
No, there was never anything wrong
with him.
Always someone else’s fault
at work
at church
the kids
but most often mine.
She talked with him for an hour
a full hour
then spoke with me the next week.
He was a sick man she said,
one who would never be well.
Diagnosis sociopath.
There was no hope for him
and frighteningly,
for me.
We could divorce
but I would never be free
she said
unless he found someone else
to victimize
or died.
What kind of luck was this?
I refused the only man I’d loved
married a man I thought was good
now trapped
till death do us part.
Trying planning
to get away
but never could work it out.
He always watched so thoroughly
it was creepy and
I felt threatened.
The man I loved at 17 found me.
Funny,
I had been searching for him, too,
finally admitting to myself
the love had never died
ever
He was married.
Another blow to the head and heart.
Luck? There is no such thing.
A December death
finding that man I’d married
lived under
been so afraid of
for more than 20 years
seated on the couch,
an empty shell.
I could not stop staring at the
gray skin
unseeing eyes
fearing he would sit up
and say
it was all a joke.
I stared through the police and paramedics
questions
wanting medicine bottles
calling the morgue for me.
They were so kind
but did not understand.
Thinking I was in shock
they kept suggesting I go out of the room
until they were finished.
I went into the living room
where the kids were wondering what happens next
all of us finding it hard to believe
it was over.
Did my luck finally change?
No, I decided.
Luck is a myth.
My mistakes and decisions
and inability to act on my own
behalf,
a remnant of childhood,
were the things responsible for the way
my life was.
No luck, nothing lucky.
It just was what it was.
Now, I was equipped by life
to make strong decisions.
Still fearful,
anxious,
yes, terribly afraid,
learning to be free of his grip.
I am going forward
slowly.
My goodness, this one left me with chills…but it is an interesting debate, if luck plays any part in the course of our lives or if everything we do stems from our decisions and actions alone. Very gripping, thought-provoking story
Very gripping and disturbing poem.
Beautiful sunrise.
My mistake is sleeping in.
Dawn up before me.
Bad luck, Walt?
In the town of Luckless
starcrossed lovers come to meet
in paths of sudden streetcars
pedestrians change routes to cross the street
the Lotto machine lies in dusty disrepair
in forty-two years not one winner wandered there
it wasn’t always this way indeed began first as Fortunes’ Fame
settled by unrushed gold seekers who smilingly tickled fate with such a name
PARASKAVEDEKATRIAPHOBIC
On Friday the 13th she took every
precaution. Avoiding
black cats,
cracked mirrors,
and spilled salt
was a tradition.
All these ominous,
luckless,
fixations just gave her
heart palpitations.
The poor fearful girl
was paraskavedekatriaphobic,
although goodness knows
she’d never tried
to pronounce it.
I do like this. What a word! I don’t know if I could ever get my tongue around it either. Your poem’s description of behaviour is a good substitute!
It is quite a word, eh? Tongue twister!
Woah. Now that word would be a challenge in the speaking olympics. Timely poem too.
Love it! I wonder how many rhymes you could find for paraskavedekatriaphobic?
~ENCODED~
Secretly etched
above the clouds,
Hebraic symbols glow
stars grow
and splatter indelibly
the darkened canvas of sky.
Do I feel a calling,
a drawing,
a deep inner longing?
“Yes,” is my reply,
from before time,
pulling me
forever forward.
Thought sifting,
I’ve found
that each “unlucky”
has just been an
“un”-der lying
learning moment
of every lucky day;
preordained
with purpose,
bursting stars
scripted in the silk of sky.
© H.G. @ P.A. 4/13/12
“scripted in the silk of sky” – gorgeous!
Thank you, Jaywig! I’ve decided to change that to “silken sky,” on my blog and found an amazing image to go with this, by “chance,” on photobucket! Such fun, playing at words!
Ah, the “un”-derlying hope that accompanies misfortune…maybe there is more to the larger picture than the small moments of bad luck. This is gorgeous writing, Hannah
Yes, truly, Imaginalchemy, a deep connected-ness in these “passing,” moments. Thank you so much for your thoughts!
love the script in the silk sky beautiful
A Family Affair
They never watched a single number
roll to the upside right
they never picked the fellow with
the fists to win the fight
they surrendered looking
in fields for four-leafed happy clover
and when a penny sparkled
up for them the head side would be over
each man, each woman, child even
Donald the family coddled bandannaed shot down duck
fell uncannily consistently persistent on the offside of all luck
I love the line “Donald the family coddled bandannaed shot down duck,” it’s as much fun to say aloud as to read. Let’s hope this family is due for some good luck soon
lovely fighting for survival
“The Brigade of the WD Poets; or An Ode to the PAD”
The Poets all awoke with the misfortune to find
The poems were all gone! Not one rhyme in their minds!
A chicken-scratched note, to highlight their bad luck,
Stated, “All of your poetry I have gleefully plucked!
If you want it back, you’ll have to come and get me!”
And it was signed by that irritating Imaginalchemy.
So off they all went, hell-bent to reclaim
Their good fortune and poetry to immortalize their names.
By sea, the siren captains Michelle Hed, Just Lynne and Khara
Steered the vessels the Ina, the Hannah, and the Marie Elena
Followed by the whale-riders JanetRuth and PKP,
Pulling behind them water skiiers Marjory MT and Catherine Lee.
A thundering of hooves from a horse-riding assault
Came Robert Brewer, Jaywing, PowerUnit, and Walt.
Benjamin Thomas and Ber flew hijacked spaceships
Commandeered by Iain Douglas Kemp and Buddha Moskowitz
Then came an array of feathered hang-gliders
With Claudsy, Nimue, and Shannon Lockard as riders
Uneven Steven and De Jackson astride a pterodactyl
On Pegasus-back came Emmajordan and PassionateQuill
And J. Lynne Sheridan and Rosemary Nissen-Wade
Commanded a power-punching kangaroo parade
To knock down the walls of Imaginalchemy’s haven
Helped by iron-plated rhinos led by Jerry Walraven
Earl Parsons, Laurie Kolp, Foodpoet and Sarite
Summoned fire to rain down from the air to smite
In legion stormed the rest: Maxie2 and Yolee,
PCS in CT, RJ Clarken and Nancy Posey,
Anders Bylund, Arike, Ely the eel and Bonnee,
MiskMask, Domino, Posmic and Lady Maggie
And all the other poets (whose names I didn’t say,
But if I listed everyone, it would take all day)
At the end of this determined march into Hell
On Oliphants tramped Michael Grove and Mystical-Poet Randy Bell
Down came the doors, the frames and the walls
“We’ve come for our poetry!” the Poets all called.
They expected a battle, but found instead
That Imaginalchemy was, unluckily for the jerk, dead.
Again a note on the prone corpse’s back
Said, “So sorry you mounted a pointless attack,
But all of this drama must now be stopping,
For I have been crushed under all the name-dropping.”
haha thanks! great! i feel so famous to be in your poem
How did you know I have iron plated rhinos to use at a moments notice?
Hilarious! Great work!
What fun! And how brilliant, to get all of us in like this!
This is my small way of saying thank you to everyone here for indulging my writing and making all the nice comments…btw, I know it’s Jaywig, I do! I don’t know how that extra “n” snuck in there! I’m sorry for typos.
Glad you all enjoy the poem
You deserve a standing ovation…can you hear it?
Joining in this standing “O!” Thank you so much!! I love being in the grouping of first discovering schooners! Such an honor, smiles!!
Great fun! Wow!
excellent work and words thanks for including me as a hyjacker of a spaceship love this image ha
so well written bravo
Hope I am not stopped by the “posting too quickly” police….
THIS IS WONDERFUL STANDING ON A CHAIR, HOPPING ON ONE FOOT WITH A TAMBOURINE APPLAUDING WONDERFUL… SOOO MUCH FUN, CREATIVE ! A NEW DAY ON “THE STREET”. THANK YOU FOR INCLUDING ME!
Hahahahahaha!! Hilarious! I noticed you made yourself the villain, Imagine, but you’re our hero for writing this clever poem!! LOL
I’ll raise my torch to that! Thanks for doing this. You just added some sticky to the glue that binds us together. You’re awesome!
Hear, hear!!
Terrific!! Thanks so much
OH MY GOODNESS! THIS IS SUPERB!! We were on the same wavelength, for sure. I honestly did not read a single poem out here today before writing mine. You did an excellent job!!!
Awwwww, lookee. I rode a pterodactyl today.
I had no idea. Positively prehistoric! Thank you. This poem is amazing.
This is priceless!
at a Christian concert downtown
they passed out
fliers about a Christian music fest
a few hours away
took the flier
stood in line for a hot pretzel
a man
before me in line
talking up the festival
notices my flier
asks me if I’ll go
nonchalant reply
“no, I always go to the big one
I figure if you’re going to go
to a music festival
you might as well go to the best one
the biggest festival in the country
I always go there”
him undaunted
“but this one’s only a few hours away
great bands
nearly as big as the other
as many days and nearly as popular
15,000 fans is nothing to sneeze at”
opens the flier to wow me
with the schedule
I look down, unimpressed
“i might go down for one night.
i like Anberlin”
he tells me
he’s the director of the festival
I try to hold back the pink
forming on my cheeks
but I won’t back down now
“I’ll have to check my schedule.
i might check out Anberlin that night”
lucky for me
the man turns and slips away
before i admit
anberlin is my favorite band
i think i need to stop
making fun of that festival
it sounds great
when i run into him there
what will say?
because it’s just my luck
i’d run into him
while waiting in line for a pretzel
again
Yeah, that’s the way life works! Darn.
haha yes. i don’t think it’s a very eloquent poem, just a story, but it’s a fun story anyways.
Yep it is a fun story, indeed! And the story of my life. “What are the chances?” HA!
how are you and I so related?! hehe
in the foggy dawn
stretches gazing cross the lane
at the titmouse wandering
blinking sleepy eyes
bumping velvet claw
Tanka truck driven
Through this morning’s sleepy haze
gathering speeded road
under lumbering tires
pop the crossing toad
Company’s a coming,
there’s so much left to to do,
Planning, Cleaning. Cooking,
Livin’ in Ma-Hubbard’s shoe.
“If it weren’t for bad luck”
Bad luck brought me here,
following this crooked line
from Misery
and Michigan
to this day,
when the Sun angles in
and reflects off of
blue sky drawings
of kittens and pups
and rainbows
and raindrops
and smiling suns.
This turned over glass,
this spilled life
somehow
found me here
where I no longer
think of luck
or worry
of its
consequence.
Oooh so elegant and fine…a delight!
Household Bonanza
Household Bonanza
And buttermilk pleasures
Daddy Discovers
Many diapered treasures
Gift wrapped tightly
And handled with care
Emanating golden treats
Has filled the air
Ah a Poet’s pleasure!
Switch to the Market from CD’s,
no need to retire the leaner,
Let your money grow with ease,
and dream the dream of dreamers.
They said it was self-sustaining,
the business was doing fine,
just come and do maintaining,
but the business robbed us blind.
Ha ha… So much fun!
Ha ha! Good one!
The best part was when we left the farm.
MAKES SENSE
Picked up a penny,
Held it under the full moon,
Donated a dime,
Gave it up too soon!
Danced on a dollar,
Quickly lost the tune,
Quieted a quarter,
On the first of June,
Nudged on a nickel,
Breaking through an old cocoon,
Put away a pound,
Hidden in a bank,
No one else had found,
Had nobody to thank!
I yielded every yen,
Rounded every ruby,
It was very Zen,
Yet unlucky as could be!
When you’re collecting money,
It isn’t always quite a joke,
You’d be better off hugging your honey,
Then ending a poem . . .
BROKE!
Thanks for the smile! Bravo!
Yea!
Thank you, Pearl, Marie Elena and Sara . . . appreciate your kind words and the smiles! Gotta have those smiles!
You just too sweet!
Friday, the 13th
The threat to life (of love’s capricious dart,
its poison proving meant’s not good enough
unless both think so) is (not up to snuff
no matter how much sacrificed) to start
(there was a job, there was a place) to chart
a course (and all the other legal stuff
required of you to immigrate) to tough
it out together, then fall far apart.
It kills a man. Then kills him back to back
again until the man’s past all unknown
and yet again until the man’s lost track
and even yet again damned to his own
dark hell. All voided out. All lost. All black.
Unwanted. Turned away from. That alone.
Powerful words and imagery…something about “meant’s not good enough unless both think so” is very striking to me; maybe that’s all love can ever be, is just when two people believe it is worth it?
That same line really struck me as well.
The table’s set and pretty,
the light’s are turned down low,
the dinner’s done and waiting,
who forgot to come? My beau.
Adorable!
Luckless
I’ve wasted days in many ways
And searched the world over
I never found a lucky charm
Not a single four leaf clove.r
I came across a rabbit’s foot
And I began to grab it
When I remembered that the token
Wasn’t lucky for the rabbit.
I had a plate of pork fried rice
Then cracked the fortune cookie
“Hard work is its own reward”
…But it’s more fun playing hooky.
This horseshoe came from off the foot
Of the horse who set the pace
But he threw the shoe and stumbled
And of course he lost the race.
Bending down I searched the ground
And found a lucky penny
But I’d purloined a copper coin
And not the Horn of Plenty.
I’m tired of fruitless searching
And I no longer give a #@&*
I’m giving up this vain pursuit
And making my own luck.
Great flow and bawdy rhyme has me grinning! Good one
I love it. Well written and fun to read.
Very fun to read.
I like the last line best.
Better luck to ya ta day.
Love the galloping rhyme and insouciance!
That was delightful!
Beep
Please leave a message after the tone
A message is rarely left
I, as owner of this number
Promise not to disregard it
I will listen carefully
To what you tell me in a stutter
A long monologue
I can’t call you back
You’ll forget to leave a number
Makes you nervous, a recording
Or I’ll listen to your phone
Going click-beep-beep-beep
And delete the message, irritated
Why did you bother to call, then?
Gatekeeper
Through the window two brown eyes
I do not growl, but I can
I haven’t decided you’re a friend
Ring the doorbell, I dare you to try
I’ll bark until my master comes
He’ll send you away when he’s done
I, I get to guard his house at night
trail
crack in the pavement
hole in the tree
stalk without flower
a shambling walk to a
wounded animal
alcohol like blood
in your veins on your clothes
a vapour over you
attracting predators
no wallet no salary no food
im sorry anna no i cant take this
no wife no kids no home
Antwerp central
King’s hall for a citizen
Old ghost passing through this station
Marble arches up four storeys
In a public building, this city
Bragged to its inhabitants
Monarchy and nobility afterthoughts
In black brocade and lacy froths
Urban palaces for mastercraftsmen
The guild houses huddle over the market
Sometimes it’s good to remember
Modernity was three centuries old
Before we first shouted hurrah for a king
100% Privileged
No friction to stop you
Smooth slide up for your star
Well-oiled, you think, you work
So hard you got there all on your own
Unnoticed all those open doors
Undiscriminated, you white rich
Creature of no suffering
Insufferable how you complain
Brag to friends you’ve made it
It’s the random injustice you never
Met that makes you elite
Education is an option, jobs
Aplenty, you’re welcome
Everywhere you go so you don’t notice
Everyone else outside looking in
On what you have
The point of a glass ceiling: it’s invisible
Shhhh
No light to shed
Shine no beams here
Don’t light our grief
Dark
A breath withheld
A sound unmade
A mouth closed now
Still
A lash flickers
Swish of a robe
Feathers rustle
Man?
No
Fresh air comes in
Bandages folded
An empty shelf
Who-
Someone took him
He’s been stolen
Where could he be
Gone
Who would dare to
It was sabbath
It was Pesach
Do not fear, but
He’s no dead man
Not anymore
God
Touch
Two layers of epidermis engage, press, send
Pressure receptors deeper in the skin firing
The brain cries out that substance has been met
Crossing signals; the mouth releases only breath
A high whine when fingertips meet – what?
Slick slide of still-bleeding wound?
The prickle of an uneven clot?
A bobble of uneven skin, raw flesh?
Space where body was supposed to be?
Unknown if he could see through the hole
Did he really put his hand in that side?
Eyewitnesses are dead
Replicating events difficult
We probably know the type of nail ca. 30 AD
The standard issue spear for a Roman soldier
What death, resurrection would do – physically
Thomas knows
Delusional
I’m a madman, so regrettable
Traitor, traitor, traitor, history says
I expected a king and a conqueror
David, smiting Romans, I never got
I could kill you, I decided then
Grab you, beat you, kill you, they will
I don’t care, you should have been who
Strong man, leader, Lion, who I wanted
I had never meant to go so
Far beyond the hurt I felt and hate
But
It had paved the way for all those
Fearing, plotting, powerhungry and scared
Now you’re dead but they don’t weep who
Called you rabbi, Peter, Mary, the rest
So delusional, think you God, the
Son of man and speak in tongues, insane!
I can’t see what I believed so
Long I gave up everthing, so useless
I sow blood in a field bought from
Money payed for blood, the silverlings
He lies here, man without peace, whose
Name is traitor, traitor, traitor now
In the shadow
World beneath the willow
Where the ground’s a darker green
The grass hushes to a softer whisper
Because the breeze doesn’t quite reach
Where the sun cannot attack you
The whine of the bees just stops
You lie softly sleeping, though
Your math’s just halfway done
10 april: Forest, n., collection of trees
Young trees whisper in the breeze, no, atmosphere
Rustling, a storm of excited voices
Limbs reaching up and snapping together
Leaves open to the light, veins
Curling into symbols of sound
Veins in a leaf on a branch in a tree
Words in a book in a hand of a human
Makes a
Story in a head for a prize for a man
Or woman? Today anyway
It’s the teenager
Telling the adult
You did well, keep it up, so we’ll have
Books in our hands like leaves on a tree
Next year? Different books
Stories don’t stop being told
To a forest of vocal young primates
11 april: spring
Earth heats and humans pop up
Park full of coats and strange souls in T-shirts
The grass has barely woken up
Half-crawled out of the mud, fresh green
Stamped flat beneath determined feet
Of prancing children and dancing cows
No really, it was on the six o’ clock
An agenda heavy with events drops
On the mat. Too cold for the beach
So people go cultural
Reading a book is so last season
Art fair, ethnic potluck
Outside, but bring your coat
Lean against a wall out of the wind
Close your eyelids, a sunny orange
Not long now, summer, the flap of a pigeon
Nearly pooing on your head is almost a seagull
Something knew
Something cold made of wires
In a room full of metal boxes
Holds all the little files
A nest of blind birds
Flying out each year
To you
Something knew in there that
You hadn’t filled out form… number?
It’s virtual and empty so
A gaping maw gobbles up
Your right to a discount
Bye, rent
Something followed on that
A generated letter informing
You of a fait accompli
Just an afterthought
To the machine
Human
Something grew out of that
Change in the program a full
Year after you file a complaint
A glacier, this cold box
Telling you your rights
Random
Anatomy 13
Fumble fingers
Two left feet
Hair-attracting eyes
Gravity-defying hair
Numb tongue, raw throat
Sneeze-itch nose
Overproductive tear-ducts
Dry lips, splotchy cheeks
Stiff neck and sore shoulders
Wall-hitting elbows, knees
Bad-timing bladder
Sense of balance on vacation
Ears in need of aid
Bump-into-me backside
Hello-table-corner hips
Coffee-covered torso
Friday’s body is bad of luck
Sorry about the other comments. Seems I selected too much text. Must be the day.
WOW…must read again to do service!
The
Empty
Ticket will
Not buy me a
New car or a home
But it will remind me
As I throw it in the trash
Of the need to buy another
LOL! Little piece of brilliance here!
triskaidekaphobia
the thirteenth turned traitor
calling in the forces of evil
to destroy the one who called
us to love
forever leaving this number
as a curse
Love it.
How does one say their sorry
for the things they’ve said and done
with the burden so hard to carry,
and the grief to deep to share?
The page a day
calendar quote
which I’ve kept on my wall
for years, keeps telling
me there are three kinds of luck-
one I’ve translated as breeding stock,
genetic, who the hell are these people
I’ve grown up with my whole life
kind of thing,
another,
is the kind you make yourself
through your “thoughts, words and deeds”,
oh, thank god for that one,
the third one, however, is “heaven luck”,
the one that’s been stuck in my mind like an itchy
scab for years, I mean who knows,
I tear down that stupid yellow sheet
and the whole wall collapses,
or worse, I spill coffee, have to take an extra laundry trip
and voila, end up prematurely mortuaryified –
I keep thinking, stalks of wheat
if they could,
would they curse the scythe,
and if our reaper were like a real guy
would I, should we, curse him, thank him,
pity him, is that “cool book” I never read,
the Tibetan book of the dead,
like some kind of etiquette guide
and why is it that every time I pause in my work
I look up and see that “heaven luck” again
and what did I want myself to learn when I put
that damn thing up –
that if I didn’t have bad luck
that I would really
be dead
or dying
from having
no luck
at all …
“genetic, who the hell are these people
I’ve grown up with my whole life
kind of thing,”
love those lines.
HMS TITANIC
A maiden voyage,
the hoy-falloy and steerage.
It seems everyone
had the same bad odds.
Few came out winners.
Indeed.
Excellent timing on this one!!
A DOLLAR AND A DREAM
I hardly play the lottery.
I’m never that lucky,
players far as the I could see,
my odds and chances are sucky.
To me it’s just a get rich scheme,
and I’m not the guy getting richer.
for just a dollar and a dream,
the government is the winner.
Amen to that!
A BAD DAY
I wrecked my car.
An unscheduled encounter
with an inebriated idiot.
Miracle that I walked unscathed.
Broken rib, collar bone,
two fracture vertebrae,
broken leg and torn ICL.
The poor bastard died;
he had a bad day
and I wrecked my damn car.
Yikes, Walt! How awful. Bad day, indeed!
WAIT!! Is this true??????
My most important memory
and the words that seem like magic
no longer whispering unexpectedly
from behind my right ear-
I so wanted to convey to you
without greek myths or
platitudes
the hospital, my seeing you
seeing me -
our first long look of recognition
and the only line of my poem
the taut cord between us
and someone always placing in my hands
a smiling scissors
I guess this would kind of qualify as an unlucky poem and luckily i get to do some of these at work – uh i think. Will do another more directly related to the topic if I get lucky this morning and have the time… but not in a fired kind of way .. unless that keeps me from dying in a tragic fire at work… kind of reminds me of a chinese tale of what we consider lucky and unlucky….
Steven, I just want to mention that I’ve been reading your work all month, and it’s very impressive stuff… been almost too busy to read or even write at all, but in the minutes I scrape together to skim, your pieces always stand out. Keep up the excellent writing, please!
And I agree as well. Wholeheartedly.
Absolutely agree with Joseph…each piece is impressive, excellent, thoroughly enjoyable and professional
.
Thank you very much for the kind comments. I appreciate the opportunity to participate in this stimulating challenge and look forward to the next couple of weeks. Can’t guarantee “professionalism” in all of them though, often write tired and I usually try and wait before allowing others to see…. so if some don’t make sense probably not you
I’m in on your work as well.
This gave me chills. In a good way.
